


That Snape Boy

by curlingparenthesis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Severus Snape, Friendship, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape Friendship, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, POV Outsider, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Severus Snape-centric, Vomiting, Young Severus Snape, but in the past, but too much trauma to show it, discussion of marauders era, that is to say NOT romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29422965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlingparenthesis/pseuds/curlingparenthesis
Summary: Suddenly sixteen year old Severus Snape doesn’t understand why everyone in the future hates him so much.Really, they’re all just trying to figure out how this kid--determined, passionate, brilliant, if deeply injured on top of it all--turns into Hogwarts’ most feared professor.
Relationships: Severus Snape & George Weasley
Comments: 31
Kudos: 173





	1. Kingsley Shacklebolt Wins a Fight

**Author's Note:**

> As it stands, every chapter written out for this so far is from the perspective of a character who is not Snape. Unless his perspective becomes a narrative necessity, I intend to keep it that way. The reason for this is that Snape knows what factors made him who he is, and the focus of this story on the people in his adult life being confronted with the existence of those factors when they had previously written him off as a one-dimensional, real-life villain with no motivations except evil and shadows and stuff.
> 
> On a less complex level, this is a gratuitous fic fulfilling all my personal needs to see Snape's troubles and traumas acknowledged by other characters.

Judging the malice behind a curse by sight alone was a skill Kingsley had not learned until after the academy, when his boss finally felt confident enough in the new graduates to throw them on a real mission. In the two weeks after he’d spent in a St Mungo’s bed, Kingsley’s nightmares were filled with the last three things he’d seen during that raid: the white teeth of the man who cursed him, the glint of spell light on the man’s fingernails, and the spitting, turning bolt of his curse as it shot towards Kingsley’s face.

When he’d finally awoken lucid, the medi witches told him he was actually quite lucky to have had his skull turned inside out. Had the man hit his chest, he'd have been dead before his organs hit the ground. After, everyone wanted to know what having his brain escape the cap felt like, but he couldn’t remember much beyond the initial crack of bones. No, at night he dreamed of glinting teeth, shining nails, and a curse.

Teeth. Nails. Curse.

It scared him more than any physical damage done to his body. Even though he’d seen that exact curse and worse performed at targets in class demonstrations, nothing could have prepared him for the terror of seeing it fly towards him. Before his release, his supervisor had sat on the end of his bed and quietly told him to think hard about the way the light had looked. It was malice which made a curse, and what Kingsley had seen could never be taught in a class.

He was right. As Kingsley’s experience grew, he found he could tell which criminals would fight to death and which would forfeit first based on the look of their spells. A deranged man ready to die could cast beautiful, terrifying things that twisted in on themselves and breathed as though alive.

The spell coming towards him at this exact moment was remarkable. 

But it did not strike true. It struck Snape.

Kingsley had fought with the potions master twice before in the two weeks since Voldemort had been revived, and thus been witness to the impressively delicate way he balanced deadly skill in a fight with his numerous pretenses. In the interest of maintaining his cover, Snape had You-Know-Who's permission to be seen battling on the side of the light. Of course, there was strict instruction not to apply himself too well to the task, which curbed his direct damage quite severely. 

Master duellist that he was, Snape still had his more discrete tactics. He hindered opponents rather than disable them, and, when one was already flying towards an unshielded order member, shifted into the path of their spells rather than shielding his allies against them. Why he would do that when he _himself_ was unshielded, Kingsley couldn’t say. Perhaps he considered himself more resilient than most.

To be fair, he had seen Snape stagger away from truly horrible curses. The man licked his own wounds, and privately at that; perhaps that was why his true allies rarely concerned themselves with his health. As a spy should be, he was trusted not to bite off more than he could chew.

So when Snape dropped like a stone in front of him, Kingsley’s automatic response was to leave him there. The wizard who’d felled him was still firing off after all, and then there were Alastor’s _three_ remaining opponents to assist with. 

The only moment he felt guilty for taking was when, after all six death eaters had fled--some carried by their cohorts--he shared a long, relieved laugh with his old friend before remembering their associate's condition.

“Snape’s down,” he told Alastor. “We should check on him.”

“Best not,” Alastor replied with a wave. “He always manages to drag himself off, and he destests a friendly hand just as much as an unfriendly one.”

“He’s out cold, for at least a few minutes now. We cannot not leave him. But we do have to be on our way.” He tapped his pocket; inside was a shrunken case containing six memories crucial to their cause. Those memories were the reason for the death eater ambush.

“Fair enough. Keep your wand up, Kingsley. He’ll fire on instinct if he wakes to you grabbing him.”

“Not everyone’s you, _Mad-eye_ ,” Kingsley pointed out, although he ceded that Snape was closer to Moody's famous paranoia than most.

But something about the whole thing was off, Kingsley began to suspect as he walked back to Snape’s body. It seemed to have curled up, so much that his form was lost under his robes. But Kingsley had seen him fall flat, so how was it that now even his head was hidden in the fabric pool of his cloak? And about a foot away from it were his shoes, so he’d somehow kicked those off _after_ falling unconscious.

“Moody,” he whispered, a note of caution, before grabbing Snape’s cloak and pulling.

Underneath was a boy. Before the two of them, the pale teenager dressed in Snape’s clothing woke and sat up, blinking at the nearby streetlight which flickered due to magical interference. He blearily shifted to Kingsley, not noticing Alastor yet.

He frowned. “What--” He caught sight of Kingsley’s wand, still awkwardly aimed at his chest, and stopped short.

“I’m going to need you to answer a few questions,” Kingsley said.

The punch to his nose was brutal and quick enough that the boy managed to yank his wand out of his hand. 

“ _Obscuro_!” the kid shrieked, and Kinglsey cursed, groping for him blindly with one hand as he fumbled at the conjured blindfold with the other.

“Alastor!” he yelled, and grabbed onto something solid. A wrist? An ankle?

“ _Sectumsempra_!” Fucking _Merlin_ , Kingsley pulled his hand back. His arm was split open palm to elbow, thankfully along the side rather than the forearm. What the hell kind of overpowered cutting curse was _that_? 

He could hear the boy stumbling away, tripping over something--the oversized robes, probably. Alastor sent a few stunners, which the kid must’ve either dodged or wordlessly shielded again. Almost certainly the former.

“ _Colloshoo!”_ the mystery child sounded terrified even as he paired the sticking spell with two types of weakening hexes. Creative bugger, which was probably the only thing keeping him out of Alastor’s grasp so far. That and the fact that he was a child--well, teenager. Either he was somehow a young Snape or he’d been switched with someone else’s kid; in either case Alastor would not aim to seriously injure.

The spell on Kingsley wavered enough for him to pull the blindfold off, and--

Yes, that was a young Snape. That was _certainly_ a young Snape. If the nose wasn’t enough to prove it, the murderous expression was. The boy was swimming in his robes, quite a deal shorter than the body they’d been tailored to fit, and his hair was longer than Kingsley had ever seen it. He looked fifteen or sixteen, dead serious even with his sleeve hiked miles up just to get his wand hand out.

“ _Stupefy. Stupefy!”_ Held back by his unwillingness to do a young Snape harm, Alastor’s usual repertoire of dueling spells was severely limited. Given a moment, he would recover his wits, but Kingsley decided to save them all time.

“ _Flipendo_ ,” he said firmly, waving his hand in the correct movement. Wandlessly, the spell had barely any power, but the boy was a breeze away from tripping already and toppled over.

In an instant, Alastor had him disarmed. Kingsley went off-track to fetch his wand, so his companion was already glaring down at the boy by the time he reached his shoulder.

“You’re Severus Snape, aren’t ya,” Alastor said, like he was reading the boy his warrant.

“No.” Not the slightest bit of hesitation. It was bold, but he looked too much like himself to fool anyone no matter how skillful the lie. Seeing such nerve from a kid propped back on his elbows at their feet, Kingsley had to laugh.

“You are,” he said. “But not to worry. Despite our initial impression, you are among allies.”

The boy eyed them. Carefully, he repeated, “Allies.” It was somehow more condescending than an outright scoff.

“Really,” Kingsley assured him, but decided against setting his wand down to prove it. “You were hit with a curse. A very bad curse. You’ve been de-aged.”

“No,” the boy told him.

“Yes.”

“I was at Hogwarts,” young Snape insisted. “I was at Hogwarts just a second ago, I can’t have been hit with a spell. Where are we? Who are you?”

“My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt,” he said, then indicated Alastor. “This is Alastor Moody. We are aurors. This is London. Ah..." He looked around for a street sign and decided their exact location didn't matter. "It's London. We were fighting alongside you when you were hit.”

“I’m an _auror_?!” Kingsley tried not to be insulted at the boy's obvious horror, acknowledging privately that the thought of Snape as an auror _was_ horrifying, and a teenage version of the man should well know it.

“Not a chance in hell,” Alastor answered. At least they all agreed on that, then. “Just around for this one.”

“Oh.” The boy straightened himself up into a better sitting position, testing to see if they'd stop him. “What _do_ I do then? Actually,” he cut them off, “What time is it? The year, I mean, and the month.” Admirably practical, initial response aside. Then again, his fighting had been even more impressive; presumably having been plucked from his bed at Hogwarts, he’d reacted quickly and appropriately to waking up under a grown man aiming a wand at his chest. 

“It’s July,” Kingsley told him. “July thirteenth.”

“Nineteen ninety-five,” Alastor added, since he’d lost tact along with his leg years ago.

“Ninety- _five_?” 

“What year do you come from?” Kingsley asked.

Snape looked dizzy as he answered, “Seventy-six. It’s nineteen seventy-six. I’m a sixth year at Hogwarts.” So he was sixteen or seventeen, then. Still unusually small for how tall he would be as an adult. And wait, didn’t that make the current Snape about thirty-five? Kingsley had thought the man was much older. Of course, he’d thought so because surely only age could make a man so suspicious, but even the teenage version seemed inclined to it.

“Good fight in you for someone so young,” Alastor commented. It was along the same lines as Kingsley had thought.

The boy thanked him, apparently calm, but Kingsley was reluctant to rely on the composure of a teenager.

“We should go.” Alastor and Snape looked at him. Now that he’d had time to take the situation in, Kingsley let himself marvel at the strangeness of it. He’d never known Severus as a youth, except for the brief glimpse of a haunted young man at his trial. This boy was yellow but healthy, or at least he was sickly in the way that seemed natural for Snape. His bones were sharp as his face was long, with lashes thick all the way around his enormous, slanted eyes. Snape as Kingsley knew him had a similarly dark, empty gaze--word had it he was an occlumens--but on a child’s face, the feature was so outstanding that it wavered between enrapturing and discomfiting. The shadows hit him harshly, the streetlight even more so. 

He did not accept Kingsley’s offered hand to stand. As he’d noticed before, the boy was shorter than would have been expected so close to adulthood. Snape as Kingsley knew him was at least a hundred eighty centimeters; right now he was well under that.

“Where are we going?”

Kingsley got the feeling that the boy had only gotten up in order to bolt if he didn’t like the answer. Skittish, then, but a young Snape had to be.

“We have our job to complete. The one we came here for. But… you should not come. Moody?”

“We ought not to split up. We know they’re aware of us already; we’d be easy pickings. I have a feeling our delivery was going to Dumbledore eventually.” 

A fair assumption. “Skip the middleman, then?”

“We missed our chance at subtlety a long time ago. We’ll go straight to Hogwarts and tell our fence later.” Kingsley nodded.

“You said you came from Hogwarts?” The boy shrugged a yes. “We’ll take you back there now. Dumbledore will know what to do.”

An expression crossed Snape’s face, then. His lip curled, his brow furrowed, and his mouth opened as if to object. Then, visibly reigning himself in, he nodded gravely once more and firmly grasped Kingsley’s arm before either of them could grab him. Moody collected his missing shoes, which Snape refused to acknowledge he had forgotten, and they disapparated. There was no discussion needed as to their exact destination; one particular alleyway in Hogsmeade deserved a plaque for how many times they'd met there.

Every trace of magic gone from the scene, the streetlight ceased to flicker, lighting the empty road with a sense of safety once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of Shacklebolt and Moody being a cool, natural partnership in the Order. Very good-cop bad-cop. Although they have incredibly different temperaments and ways of approaching the work, they must be very familiar with each other after all the years. With that comes respect, since each of them has proven himself in his own way.


	2. Alastor Moody Makes a Delivery

Having given the matter some more thought, Alastor decided that if Snape made another break for it, he’d be comfortable shooting him with more than just stunners. Young though he may be, Snape was hardly an innocent at any age--or so Alastor assumed, and evidence thus far supported.

They weren’t quite frog marching Snape up the path from Hogsmeade, but Alastor doubted the boy would have let them walk at his back if he thought he had any choice. Good instincts, that one. Good reaction speed, too--had Shackblebolt been alone when the boy woke up, Snape would have escaped easily. 

Had he awoken alone with _Alastor_ , however, he certainly would’ve had to do without a stolen weapon. Kingsley was a tough auror, reliable and respectable, but managing to lose his wand to a sixteen year old within a minute of the tinker waking up was pathetic. At least he'd been sliced up hard enough to make him reflect on his fumble.

Still, well-deserved as the wound might be, they had better fix it up before meeting Dumbledore. His partner had already sent a patronus ahead; the old man would likely be waiting at the gate for their package. Shacklebolt hadn’t mentioned the trouble with Snape, but then they were both the type to only relay sensitive information in person.

“We’ll heal that before we go any further,” Alastor said, which was his way of offering to help. He saw Snape shift nervously, either guilty or worried the two of them would hold a grudge. Seeing as comforting teenagers was not even remotely his job--and the one time he’d tried to make it so had seen him locked in a trunk, getting his hair plucked out like a captive unicorn for months--Alastor decided to pretend not to notice the kid’s worry and simply motioned for Shacklebolt to hold out his arm.

“ _Cessare sanguin._ ” The healing spell didn’t take, but the slash was a fair size so Alastor just repeated the incantation.

“I think it’s a cursed wound,” Shacklebolt commented when it showed no sign of improvement after three repetitions. They turned to Snape.

“I used a curse,” he confirmed. No wonder he looked apprehensive; casting a curse successfully at his age was the kind of thing that rightfully put aurors on edge. It had landed strong, too, which meant he either had a lot of pent up sadism or incredibly firm mental control. Knowing Snape as an adult, it could really be either.

“We’ll have to wrap it later then,” Alastor said with fake dismissal. Snape would run again if he smelled punishment coming. “For now, I’ll just stop the blood. _Cessare fluxu._ ” Rather than freezing, the blood from the wound slowed for just a moment, welled up, and spilled over at an even faster pace than before. He turned to Snape, who winced slightly. “What curse did you use?”

“One I… made up.”

“It’s resistant to healing charms,” Shacklebolt said.

“Yes.”

Bloody taciturn teenagers. “Is there a counter curse?” Snape considered the question. Patience lost, Alastor growled, “Spit it out, boy, yes or no?” 

“There’s a counter curse.” The boy bit his lip automatically before suppressing the nervous tic, schooling his face to handle the anticipated wrath against his next statement: “It’s secret.”

“But you made it up, so you can bloody well cast it, can’t you?”

“I can. I mean I could.” The boy looked at the wound more carefully, then at Shacklebolt’s face. His eyes narrowed, which didn’t make them any less disconcertingly large. Alastor realized that he was weighing his options, now that he had something to bargain with. The cut on Shacklebolt’s arm wouldn’t kill him any time soon, but if it was resistant to even indirect healing spells like the blood-stopping charm, it could become lethal before they found a way to treat it. Snape was wondering what to ask for in return for saving them the trouble of calling a curse-breaker, comfortable the threat was distant enough that he wasn’t actually bargaining with Shacklebolt’s life.

“Severus,” Shacklebolt addressed him affectionately, pretending a closer connection than the two actually had. “We are allies. We are going to see you to safety. If you have any concerns, you may voice them without fear.” _No need to hold this over our heads._

Frankly, Alastor thought the attempt was weak, but Severus rolled his lips in a suppressed version of the same nervous tic as before and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t have any concerns. Just cover your ears while I say the counter-curse.”

Shacklebolt gave him one of his calm, political smiles, which meant he was fine ignoring Snape’s brief consideration of bargaining with his life. Moody wasn’t, but he knew when it was best to keep his elephant memory quiet and wait for the right moment to bring it up again. The two of them obligingly covered their ears instead of pointing out what a stupid request it was, Shacklebolt with an awkward twist to his arm so that Snape could still access the slice. Blood dripped onto his fancy blue robes; the political smile did not slip.

Snape held his hand out to Alastor, mouthing _your wand._ Once again, Alastor was both impressed and irked by the boy’s grasp of the situation--clearly he’d marked Shacklebolt as the least aggressive target and thus decided to leave him armed this time around.

“You’re better off using Shacklebolt’s, since you know it works for you already,” he said, just to get under the bugger’s skin. Snape’s eyes, shadowed, searched him suspiciously, but of course he could not come up with an excuse to insist on taking Moody’s wand. Shacklebolt, capable of reading lips--not to mention that really, hands only kept so much sound out--produced his wand.

Snape took it, ran a finger down it as if to say hello, then lit a wordless _lumos_. Borrowed wands sometimes worked in an emergency only to explode during casual use, so he was right to feel it out before performing a complex curse-reversal. Alastor didn’t hurry him along. It rang his alarms again, though, that the boy seemed so familiar with unusual practices of magic. Why would a schoolboy know the rules of taking a wand? How had he been designing curses in his free time, of a sort that would inevitably--even directly--kill? 

He couldn’t reassure himself that Snape turned out alright in the end, either. This younger version would willingly and fully commit himself to the Dark Lord long before seeking redemption. Dumbledore had obscured Snape’s exact role on the dark side of the war from the public when he’d had the man exonerated, but Alastor knew he’d been part of Voldemort’s inner circle. Wizards did terrible, terrible things to reach that rank. This boy was not Severus Snape, the turncoat. He was Snape, the enemy.

He was pointing a weapon at Shacklebolt.

The urge to shield his old friend from the teenager’s spell grew almost unmanageable when the boy raised his elbow to his mouth to further conceal the charm he was using--he’d noticed their lip-reading, then. The oversized sleeve of his cloak muffled the sound quite well, too, but Alastor used his magical eye to see Snape’s lips underneath. Unfortunately, the bloody mumbling child barely moved them. All Alastor could see was that the spell started with either a ‘v’ or an ‘f’ and was a fair few syllables long. He’d also repeated the incantation, which made it difficult to tell how long one iteration was.

With his human eye, he watched Kingsley’s blood flow backwards into his gash. Even the stain on his robe faded, red receding to whence it came. Kingsley gained the slightest amount of color in his face; Alastor realized with a start that he’d actually lost an unnaturally large amount of blood without either of them noticing. One of those hidden-twist curses, then. He hated those.

“Don’t worry, the blood going back is clean,” Snape said at a normal volume, as if _that_ was what put them on edge.

“Is it some kind of time-based charm?” Shacklebolt dropped his arms from his ears to better watch the wound knit itself shut. Alastor put his down too since the incantation was finished.

“It’s not,” Snape said. “Which you could know without asking because it leaves a scar. Look.” It was a clean, straight scar, but quite severe. “Don’t worry, though. A little dittany and you won’t 'ave a mark there at all.” He sounded reassuring. It felt strange to hear something as kind as _don’t worry_ from any version of Snape, especially because it had sounded sincere--truly out of concern for Shacklebolt’s vanity and not just to temper their anger.

“Your spellwork is quite impressive. Does this charm only work for your curse?”

“No, it works for most curse wounds. I mean--I haven’t actually encountered a curse wound it doesn’t work on.” The question was whether he’d encountered enough curse wounds to prove that statement. 

Shacklebolt was unsubtly straining to not criticize Snape for keeping the charm secret as he took his wand back. He and Alastor had personally seen many of their friends die, retire, or continue in lifelong shame from the results of mutilation curses. With the healing charm they’d just seen demonstrated, Alastor could still have his eye. He might still have his leg. Merlin, the _adult_ Snape still hadn’t published the damn spell, which meant he’d kept it in his pocket all throughout the first war!

Since Alastor was the rude one between the two of them, he went ahead and asked Shacklebolt’s question for him. “You never thought to pass it onto the aurors that you’d gone and made a healing spell like that, did you? Never thought to write St Mungo’s?” 

Snape looked bewildered. “It’s only a little charm,” he said. “I’ve made a million of them.”

“And a million curses, too?” He wouldn’t poke much more, seeing as the kid still had a mind to run, but that one had to be said.

“I made a curse for enemies,” Snape defended sharply, “then woke up to a grown man I’d never seen before standing over me with a wand. It was either that or a cock shot--” Alastor’s lone eyebrow went flying up-- “and my feet were caught up.” His ears were far from virginal, but Alastor had never even heard Snape say _damn_ before. Teenagers swore rather freely, of course, but grown-Snape gave off the impression of someone who’d spoken with care since birth.

Shacklebolt was thrilled. Glacial as his face appeared, Alastor had known the man long enough to parse all his concealed emotions, plus there was nothing Kingsley liked more than seeing an icon defaced. “You would have kicked me?” Picturing an adult Snape resorting to cheap body shots must have been _perfect_ for him.

“I’d ‘ave done more than kicked you, wouldn’t I? I thought you were--uh, were trying to kill me.” Indignation had allowed a little more of Snape’s accent to poke through than the kid apparently intended, since he looked embarrassed. It was an amusing surprise for Alastor, but Shacklebolt’s visible joy quadrupled; of all the things Snape had ever been suspected of hiding, cockney was not one of them. 

Moody rolled his eye--the 'mad' one--around behind his skull and back as if to do a quick search for eavesdroppers, but really it was a personal tic Kingsley would recognize as a warning to tone it down. Cheeky bastard was subtle enough for bigheaded politicians, but Snape was too intuitive to risk teasing. Not to mention the danger of wounding a teenage boy's pride.

“We won’t fault you for defending yourself,” Alastor said shortly. He walked just far enough to get them moving, too, then fell back a little. Now Snape was in between the two of them instead of right ahead like an escorted prisoner as he'd been before. “But I’d like to know who at Hogwarts was teaching you curse design.”

“I taught myself.” 

Alastor’s magical eye shot to watch Snape subtly through his skull as he nudged around for the lie. “You can’t teach yourself spell design.”

“I taught myself," Snape repeated with a frown. "They've never taught spell design at Hogwarts except for once during an elective class in eighteen twenty-two. The textbook is still in the library; I started there.” He tilted his head down and corrected, “Actually, I started in Ancient Runes, trying to replace the written aspects of wards with spoken aspects since some of them are greek symbols with established phonetics. But Professor Hickory threatened to kick me out of the class, so I started doing it on my own.”

“You tried to... pronounce wards aloud? Most of them are just magical marks,” Shacklebolt said.

“Yes, but some of them aren’t.”

“And how did you account for the placement of each symbol?” Alastor prodded. If Snape _was_ telling the truth, the boy’s brain was off the rails. Who'd ever heard of _reading_ wards?Merlin’s buggering back, one might as well try to _read_ a painting.

“I went from top to bottom, putting the words in that order during the incantation. But sometimes I just tried every combination of the right syllables until the spell did what it ought to.”

“You’d have blown yourself up,” Alastor snorted. Just when the kid had caught Moody’s attention, too.

“Yes,” Snape admitted with enough embarrassment that he might actually have been serious. “Almost snapped my wand. _Just_ up to the point where it could still be fixed with a spell. After that I did all my experiments wandlessly. Less power, less damage if something went wrong.” 

Shacklebolt just hummed. “Less ability to shield yourself.”

“That’s what the healing charm was for, originally. I kept improving it because I kept _needing_ it--" No wonder his teacher had tried to kick him out, the boy was a hazard to everyone around him! "--And then I stumbled onto this whole branch of study about spells involving interaction with living things--anything that’s a primary consumer or above, that is--only everyone had been ignoring it because it was all about muggle sciences, but it was magical research, it was _good_ magical research!” 

Snape was slowing down, as if all the power in his legs was going to his head. “There must’ve been fif'y books on it, all written by the same four witches. And I checked, but they were bann' everywhere, the whole group of them--and Madam Pince laughed at me for asking--but then I found them in a _muggle_ library, in the _fiction_ section, can you believe it?” He whirled to face Shacklebolt, who barely had to nod in acknowledgement to set him off again.

For the rest of the journey Snape rambled about spells and runes and ostracized researchers of all sorts. He had a particular kinship with those whose genius was unrecognized, which made Alastor suspect he didn’t really believe his healing spell was ‘only a little charm’ after all. There was something else keeping Snape from publishing what he’d by now hinted was an extensive collection of not only new spells, but dead clever improvements on old ones.

The cockney kept coming back when he got really worked up, but Shacklebolt seemed interested enough in the conversation to politely ignore it. Alastor smiled privately, knowing he’d get an earful of speculation about it later. _Then_ Kingsley would regret not having paid more attention to Snape’s concealed accent.

Dumbledore was waiting for them at the gate as Alastor had anticipated, even though they’d taken a lot longer to get there than the path warranted. First there had been the issue of healing Shacklebolt, then the fact that Snape couldn’t seem to walk and talk at the same time with any level of proficiency. Of course, Dumbledore was too old for impatience.

“Alastor. Kingsley. I am glad to see you are well. Has Severus gone his own way?”

Alastor pushed the boy forwards. He’d quieted down since they got within hearing range of the headmaster.

“Nasty curse,” Alastor said. “Thought you should take a look at it.”

“Severus,” said Dumbledore with the usual raw concern he saved for his pet spy. 

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Snape replied with stunning chilliness, stepping back from the old man’s hand. The discontinuity made sense; the two had developed quite a strong relationship after a decade and a half of working together from Dumbledore’s perspective, but they couldn’t have been close while Snape was in school if the kid ran off to become a death eater immediately after.

Dumbledore didn’t push, probably reaching the same conclusion, but Alastor could tell he felt the loss.

Dumbledore had a carriage waiting for them. Snape’s eyes glided past the thestrals leading it, the only reassurance Alastor had been given about his character all night. If nothing else, he hadn’t seen death.

One out of four of their group was a little sad, on that count.

On the way up to the castle, after they’d given him the memories, Dumbledore drilled Alastor and Shacklebolt about the curse that had hit Snape. He asked how he’d been hit, what the curse looked like, how fast it flew, how bright it was, how quickly the change had occurred and if Snape seemed disoriented. The few questions directed to the boy himself, mostly about memory, were answered succinctly but precisely, and Dumbledore accepted any answer he was given without scrutiny.

It was interesting to learn Snape had taken the curse meant for Kingsley since then he had to imagine his friend as a sly, troublesome teenager in Snape’s place.

“An unusual curse,” Dumbledore summarized after they'd finally satisfied him. “Certainly an impediment to the victim in a fight, but making someone young again is not a malicious act at heart.” 

“There was malicious intent,” Shacklebolt insisted. “I saw the curse fly. It was evil.” Alastor was familiar with Shacklebolt’s strange instinct for curses. The rumor was that ever since he’d had his head turned inside out on a raid, he could sense the worst ones coming. “If the spell didn’t hurt Snape, the intended effect must have been botched.”

“That would make more sense,” Dumbledore agreed. “Especially considering the fact that age-regression magic is both incredibly difficult and extremely lucrative, since it extends one’s life and recovers lost talent.”

“Not the sort of spell you’d waste on an enemy,” Alastor surmised.

“Nor would the castor capable of such a thing be the type to waste his time duelling at all,” added Shacklebolt. 

“Then the good news is we will not have to track down the death eater who cast the curse,” Dumbledore said, sitting back as if that bit of luck was half the battle won already. “We will need to contact a curse-breaker and treat this as a regular botched spell.”

“You can’t restore him?” Alastor said, then was disappointed in himself for falling into the easy trap of thinking Dumbledore could fix anything.

“I would not dare try,” the man corrected. “Possible failure being stunningly gruesome.”

Shacklebolt tipped his head in agreement, but even his deliberate show of calm did not lessen the feeling they'd given up too easily. Glancing at a stone-faced Snape made Alastor's mouth twist.

“There’s nothing we can try safely?” he demanded. “Merlin’s sake, you won’t even wave _finite incantatem_ at him?”

“ _Finite incantatem,_ ” Dumbledore obliged. Of course, nothing happened except Snape looking pissed to have a wand turned on him without warning. “You are correct that we would be quite silly to not be sure that the simplest answer is not the best, Alastor. Unfortunately, a complex problem most often does require a complex solution.”

It was very polite for a rebuke, but Dumbledore's way of making grown witches and wizards feel like children was honestly worse than getting told off. Bloody old man was the only one who made Alastor think he really _was_ too on edge, sometimes. Well, at least Alastor could tell Snape he’d tried his best when they finally got the man back. Curse-breaking the formal way could take hours to _months_ , and while Dumbledore was old enough not to resent a necessary loss of time, Snape was an ‘every second counts’ man.

“We will need somewhere to put the boy,” Shacklebolt said hesitantly, which was just impersonal enough to make it clear he did not really consider the problem to be his concern. To Alastor, it was an obvious act of discomfort. 

The poor kid tried hard to look passive during the resulting silence. Was one of them supposed to offer to host? Surely Dumbledore knew his residence wasn't suitable for a teenager.

“Severus,” Dumbledore began.

“Snape,” he corrected. “I’m not your student anymore.” _Nor am I your friend_ , said his tone, so Alastor must have been right in his assumption that the two had some sort of past enmity.

“Mister Snape,” Dumbledore conceded. “Any who I would trust to house you are now unfortunately targets themselves.” Snape didn’t ask, _targets of who_? but he must have wondered. Merlin, he didn’t even know there was another war on. He hadn’t yet lived through the _first_ one in his time. That kind of innocence was unbelievable in a young man, these days. “I believe the best course of action would be to reach out to your parents and determine if they are still alive.”

“No,” vetoed Snape immediately. Alastor almost snapped that he didn’t get a vote, but then reconsidered and decided he probably should. “My mum’s dead, and if my dad’s not drunk himself to follow yet then I’ll kill him myself before I move in.”

“I wasn’t aware your mother died,” Dumbledore said, which oddly implied a relationship between the two of them where Snape _would_ tell him that sort of thing. Alastor made eye contact with Kingsley, raising his brow to ask, _and that bit about his dad?_

“She died about two weeks ago,” the boy muttered. “My time.”

And if that wasn’t just the worst timing since losing his eye, Alastor didn’t know what was.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” Dumbledore looked a little hesitant. “Although, I must admit I never received the appropriate legal notice that you had lost a parent while still in school.”

“The police wouldn’t have made a report,” Snape said.

“The police,” Shacklebolt repeated, noting with subtle surprise that it was a muggle term. “Why is that?” 

“Because that wouldn’t be conducive to covering up a murder,” Snape answered primly. Then he finished in a dark tone, “Fuckers.”

Had it not been for that last bit, Alastor would have thought he was joking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind, Tobias was from London and his accent contrasted starkly with Eileen's studied pureblood way of speaking. Snape would've had something in between: a smart vocabulary with cockney pronunciation. He along with every other class-marked kid would've worked hard to drop his accent as soon as he got to Hogwarts, though.
> 
> Snape as an adult never slips. Not drunk, not angry.
> 
> Also, Mad-eye calling Kingsley by his last name in his head unless he's saying something particularly fond is funny to me, especially because Kingsley kind of does the opposite.


	3. Arthur Weasley is Pressured into Adoption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Weasleys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the people who commented:
> 
> :''''''''''') 
> 
> Infinite tears.
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> Literally tell me what you want to read!!! I'm so so open to suggestions, and it seems like teen Severus is something uncommon that a lot of people want.

Seven plus two. Arthur had seven plus two kids. Bill and Charlie, who were together; Percy; Fred and George, who were together; Ron, Harry and Hermione (the plus two), who were together; and Ginny. Two three five eight nine. Molly had a nightmare of a time getting them all straight sometimes, but as long as Arthur kept to his groupings, he never missed a head.

It helped that he could tell Fred and George apart. Everyone thought the skill should have been mastered by their mother first, but as man of the house, designated person in charge of never ever losing a child on the way from Point A to Point B, pure fear had drilled every single differing freckle or nose twitch between the two into his head. Arthur had to keep them safe. Molly only had to love them.

There was one way of looking at Albus’ request in which all Arthur was being asked to do was roll one more child into the bunch. Telling Snape apart would be easy. He was sixteen, apparently, which put him between George and Hermione. That would make the count two three five six nine ten. As an abstract idea, it made sense.

And it wasn’t that Arthur didn’t want to help.

“May I come through, Albus? I’d like to meet him.” He didn’t know how old Severus Snape the adult was exactly, but it wasn’t old enough to leave any possibility that he had been a nice young man. The distance between Snape and an agreeable person was at _least_ fifty years.

“Of course,” Dumbledore said, and dropped the floo call.

Albus’ office was a treasure trove as always, although one entirely magical and thus not of much interest to Arthur. For all the lovely knick-knacks he could see, though, there was not a single teenager in sight.

“Erm…?”

“He went to the bathroom,” Kingsley explained.

“Near ten minutes ago,” Mad-Eye grumbled under his breath. “He’s made another souls-damned break for it.” 

_“Another.”_ Somehow, things were even worse than Arthur had feared.

“I believe he is taking a moment to cool himself down,” Albus soothed. Arthur, though, had heard him use that exact tone of voice to say everything from _Voldemort took your daughter to the Chamber of Secrets_ to _their prank was in great spirit, but another incident will have your sons’ professors pushing for expulsion_ , so he’d developed something of an opposite reaction to it. Foolishly, although news of the situation had put him off, he’d had a lot of subconscious faith that meeting the younger Snape would set him at ease about taking the boy in. 

Even more apprehensive than he’d begun, it hit him that he might not actually be allowed to decline.

“A little hotheaded, then?” he prodded. When no one answered him, he clarified, “Boys his age often are.”

“I’ll advise you not to patronize him,” Kingsley said, which was a terribly ominous way to contribute. Honestly, this was why aurors were the worst part of the ministry--not the slightest bit of appreciation for keeping a room comfortable in any of them.

Arthur gave him a pointedly dull, “Thank you,” and did not ask for more advice.

In a minute, the boy of the hour returned, somehow every bit how he should look and not at all what Arthur had expected. There was the nose, of course, because Severus Snape would not be himself without it, but it was several breaks shorter than how Arthur knew it. It looked far more refined straight, even though the arch of it seemed bigger uninterrupted. A startling amount shorter than the Snape Arthur knew, this one nonetheless adhered just as confidently to his strange, direct-path habit when walking. Albeit he did so with attitude instead of poise.

“Mister Weasley,” the child greeted, face smoothed to polite passiveness. Arthur wondered if he’d imagined seeing contempt there when the boy entered. “I wasn’t aware you’d be fetching me in person.” Trying to make a good impression, then. He could either set the boy at ease or keep him behaving with fear.

Poor Severus was a child, though, so there was little to ponder. Arthur had raised too many of them to manipulate this one’s discomfort. “Recognize me, do you?” he asked cheerfully. “I suppose they mentioned the hair.”

“I’m familiar with the family trait,” Severus agreed. “But we’ve also met. In my time, I mean. A couple years ago.” They had? How bizarre that he couldn’t remember. Arthur tried to think of times he may have been at Hogwarts in… what, the sixties? Had their time in school overlapped? 

“You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t quite remember,” he admitted with genuine embarrassment. “Were we schoolmates?”

Severus flushed. It did his complexion good, having returned from his bathroom trip quite drawn, but it also told Arthur he’d probably guessed wrong. “No, sir,” he said. “You graduated three years before I got to Hogwarts. I saw you on a job in seventy-three. In Cokeworth, England, Sir?” But that couldn’t be. If Snape had gotten to Hogwarts three years after Arthur finished, that would have been nineteen seventy-one. If he’d been eleven in seventy-one--

“You were born in fifty-nine?” he asked with an incredulous expression. Far too intensely, by how Severus startled. Or perhaps it was the non sequitur which had surprised him.

“Nineteen sixty, Sir,” was Severus’ correction, which was just as bad.

“Thought Snape was older, didn’t you?” Kingsley chimed in, a much more welcome comment this time because yes, Arthur really had. He was far too polite to agree outright, but Kingsley nodded as if he had anyway and said, “So did I.” To Severus, he complimented, “You carry yourself well, boy.” Of course the child looked uncomfortable, then. It _was_ a little backhanded. No young person wanted to hear he would age badly. In Snape’s case, though, it really was all in the bearing; Arthur had always assumed he was an older man who’d aged extremely _well_. He had the look of someone younger but addressed their generation as peers.

“Thank you.” At sixteen, however, Snape seemed to think stiffness could pass for manners. 

Under scrutiny, the child’s gaze darted to the side nervously. He really did look nothing like the rest of Arthur’s charges, not even Harry with his similarly colored hair. He broached again, “And Cokeworth, sir? Summer of seventy-three? You came to collect the butcher’s knives; they were eating the meat.”

_Oh stars, the butcher investigation._

“I do remember that case!” Merlin, he did. It was the first time he’d met Lily Potter. He remembered she’d been in the shop with two others, and when he’d gone to obliviate them she and one of the friends had leapt to reassure him they were magical. The third was a muggle, no helping it, but they’d not put up a fight about wiping the girl’s mind. “You were there with Lily Potter, is that right?”

“Lily--” Severus stopped short. It _was_ quite insulting that Arthur had remembered her but not him, the man realized, and hurried to keep the moment from lingering.

“Although, quite a funny thing to find a witch and a wizard so close to the scene of a magical crime,” he joked. “I certainly hope neither of you was the culprit?” Magical teenagers _were_ the most damaging to muggles, hot for playing tricks with knick-knacks lifted from their parents. But in this case, he was safe joking. If there ever had been any implication that Lily or Severus were involved, it was resolved long ago.

“I made the call,” Severus whispered. He looked winded. Arthur’s teasing fell flat; apparently, he’d deeply offended the boy.

“Strange you were watching the butcher’s knives so carefully, isn’t it?” challenged Moody, because of course an auror with no social sense would also have no sense of timing. The boy obviously wasn’t picking up on the fact that they were pulling his leg, he’d probably think Mad-Eye actually suspected him of something!

Defensively (which anyone could have anticipated), Severus retorted, “Seeing as I worked for the butcher, yes.” 

“Blood doesn’t bother you?”

“After Potions class? No, not really.”

“You sought it out, then!”

“You tryin’ to say somefing?” Severus demanded, riled into some kind of accent. He leaned into Mad-Eye the way Mad-Eye was already leaning into him, careful manners broken down by temper and, true to his teenage spirit, just one more insinuation from leaping.

“That’s quite enough!” Arthur cut in, with firmness instead of more anger, familiar enough with young men to know breaking the eye contact between Moody and Severus was the most important preventative action he could take. Maneuvering between the two, he turned on Mad-Eye as the most familiar variable. “What are you running off on, Mad-Eye? You’d think this was an interrogation! He hasn’t done a single thing wrong.”

“He will.” 

Arthur sighed. Mad-Eye, of course, thought he could scare the past into not happening.

“Perhaps the two of you should go,” suggested Dumbledore. Just as Arthur had suspected, in the end no one cared whether he was actually willing to take charge of the young Severus Snape. He certainly hadn’t consented yet. Perhaps it was his predictability--if he was honest, right from the beginning there had been no chance he’d decline.

“I’ll go with you,” Mad-Eye said, and Arthur thought, _bugger manners. Just for the aurors._

“You will _not_ ,” he snapped indelicately, and made a decisive whirl which put his back to the man. “Severus,” he called firmly, and seized a handful of floo powder. When the boy was at his side, he asked, “Know how to use a floo?”

Snape answered, “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!” As he stepped into the fire, Arthur heard Dumbledore muttering the location again for Severus’ benefit. He hadn’t considered it, but it made sense that a younger Severus would no longer be permitted inside the fidelius charm. Luckily Albus had covered the oversight with his usual benevolence, allowing Arthur all the drama of his exit while smoothing the awkwardness.

Being in the habit of seeing his charges off before traveling himself, Arthur was quite anxious in the ten seconds it took Severus to land after him. 

The Black family had a beautiful fireplace with plenty of room to walk in and out of, but of course teenagers would be tumbling creatures even with all the aid in the world. His elbow was waiting for Severus to grab, which the boy did automatically mid-stumble only to tear away once he realized what he was holding. Proud things, young people were, which made an unfortunate pair with clumsiness.

Arthur laughed. He would have no trouble separating this Snape from his older counterpart, it seemed. “It’s in the pacing,” he told the young wizard. “You must walk out of the fireplace at the same pace you walked in, which can’t be so fast that you hit the edge of the network after entering.” He went to finish the advice off with a light hair-ruffle, but Severus’ blank look turned to disgust so quickly that he aborted the motion. That was easy enough to remember. Ginny didn’t like her hair ruffled, and he’d never dared try with Hermione. Perhaps it was a ‘people with long hair’ rule instead of a ‘girl’ rule like he’d assumed. Learn something with every child!

“Alright,” he said, to give himself more time. What to do. There were introductions, supplies--Severus would need a room, toiletries, possibly entertainment if the other kids didn’t take to him. He would need a whole wardrobe if all he had was that circus tent on his back. Food, possibly immediately, but luckily Arthur could rely on the ice box being stocked.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“No, Sir,” replied Severus in his old, military tone. It was a habit Harry used to have as well.

“No need to be so formal,” Arthur reassured him, and smiled. “We’ll be living together, after all! Who knows how long? You’ll catch me down in the kitchen in the middle of the night at some point--I hope you won’t shame me with a ‘Sir,’ then.”

Severus seemed to never quite know when he was being played with. A Percy problem. “Let’s hear once more if you’re hungry or not--or thirsty--and I don’t want to hear you decline because you think it’s polite.”

“I’m really not, Sir.”

“Call me Arthur.” Severus needn’t repeat it back like a child, but Arthur would continue to correct him as warranted until the habit formed. “If you’re not hungry then we’ll move on. There are a lot of people living here, many of them your age, so I’d like to see you presentable before anything else. Then we’ll do a short nighttime tour and get you to bed.” As for dressings, he had a box of unused clothing in the Burrow. Not just outgrown things--articles that no longer needed circulating since seven closets shrunk to four. Severus was not so much shorter than the twins, only about ten centimeters. Their things would hang off him anyway, at least until Molly got a little more flesh on his bones. A fattened Snape! How strange to imagine the two ideas as more than an oxymoron.

Head full of plans, Arthur instructed Severus to empty his pockets on the dining room table. He could sort through the hints of his adult life in private while Arthur fetched him some new things. It didn’t take long to gather a coat--he’d only be outside for a moment, but the chill was sharp.

“... Sir?” The call came painfully polite at the very last moment, right as Arthur was at the door.

“ _Arthur_ , Severus. Hungry after all?”

“No.” Without the _Sir_. “I apologize for losing my temper earlier.” Much more reluctantly, he mumbled, “Thank you for defending me. Arthur.” 

Pleased to see Severus manage a casual address, Arthur chirped, “Boys will be boys!” and was out the door.

The Burrow was sad to see empty. None of the chimneys were coughing, none of the chickens were squabbling. Inside, the pots and pans were clean and static in their correct cabinets, the couch blankets were folded, and any herbs on the ceiling had either long finished drying or gone to rot. Even the ghoul was quiet, its moaning and banging for attention given up at the realization the Weasleys had abandoned their Burrow. Perhaps Arthur should have brought a few bells with him as an apology gift for leaving the poor beast alone when they all fled to Grimmauld place. It hated silence. But even if the thing was somehow convinced to follow them, the Black ancestral home had too many creatures already--and truly, some of them were more likely to eat a family ghoul than tolerate its racket.

Arthur could not bear to check on his shared room with Molly, but on the second floor he snagged Ginny’s forgotten quidditch playbook--the Holyhead Harpies one she’d bemoaned forgetting. Fred and George needed nothing; Percy’s door he couldn’t even look at.

_You know, Fabian and Gideon would never have let us live like this! They’d be embarrassed to see you and your stupid fear campaign!_

_You’re just late for the last war, desperate for another shot at playing the hero. You’ll never be past your delusions. I wish they were still here and you’d died instead!_

_I wish they were still here and you’d died instead!_

_I wish you’d died instead._

When Percy was born, Arthur had nearly danced in the delivery room. Charlie, Fred and George had all been terribly heavy babies, taking after the Prewitts; Percy was a Weasley from the moment he coughed his first beautiful, wet cough.

How time flew.

The extra clothes were in Bill and Charlie’s old room, one more flight up. There were boxes labeled ‘Christmas,’ ‘Easter,’ and one without a lid marked ‘Halloween’ which had a few tatty wigs topping it off. Then there were the ‘Winter Clothes’ boxes, the ‘Summer Outing’ boxes--covered in oil marks from various sun protection potions--and a few more of that type, with one hopeful bin that read, ‘In Case We Go To Egypt Again.’

As it turned out, Egypt had come to them. Bill’s job had moved him to London three days ago on request--one he’d submitted with single-minded determination to participate in the Order. Merlin, let Arthut not be doomed to lose more sons… Not that Percy was dead.

At last he unearthed the cluster of sacks which held general wardrobe overflow. He considered picking some clothes out himself, but it would be so inconvenient to discover he’d chosen the wrong size or style or fit or _whatever_ and honestly, he was aching to be away from the strange thoughts a quiet Burrow brought him. Taking up the largest two bags, he apparated back to the street in front of Grimmauld Place having lost about fifteen minutes total.

Fifteen minutes of disaster, apparently. “Shacklebolt, I certainly hope the poor boy has done something wrong to deserve your looming.”

Kingsley didn’t step back or lift his eyes from Severus. As Arthur had requested, Severus’ pockets were emptied onto the table, and the boy now stood protectively between the auror and a rather impressive collection of vials, quills, and other bits.

“He’s trying to hide his wand,” Kingsley accused.

“I’m _not_.”

Arthur arrived at the table. “What?” 

“I _said_ he’s keeping a concealed weapon. He didn’t leave it in the street where he was changed, he certainly didn’t hand it off to Dumbledore, and he hasn’t put it down with everything else.”

Snape crossed his arms rudely and said, “I must have dropped it somewhere. Honestly, it’s not my fault I was preoccupied with being _dragged from my bed into a new reality_. Aren’t you an auror? I should be asking _you_ where it is.”

“Now, now,” hushed Arthur. First letting Mad-Eye goad him, now insulting Shacklebolt? For someone known for his survival instincts, Snape made a reckless child. “There’s no need for fighting amongst friends!” Not that saying so ever helped. “And Kingsley… not to be rude. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Albus sent me with more information,” Shacklebolt explained, thankfully convinced to face Arthur fully. “Since you left so quickly.” 

_Without any information at all, really, yes._

“Ah, yes.” He would neither defend himself nor apologize. Good old neutrality to save one’s pride! Really he’d stormed out in a silly little bout of anger, but then Mad-Eye _had_ been out of line. “Let’s hear it, then? … Erm,” he realized too late that there were many things a volatile teenager probably should not be privy to. “Severus, there are some clothes in the bags, just some things belonging to the other children--young people--that they don’t need. Why don’t you go look at them in one of the first-floor rooms.” He gestured vaguely. “Down that hallway. Any to the left should be empty right now.”

Severus spun on his heel with a suspiciously enthusiastic nod, swooping down for the bags and--

“He’s still got his wand!”

Kingsley seized him by the arm, nearly yanking it out of its socket from the way the boy jerked to a stop.

“Kingsley!” Arthur cried. “What I will _not_ have is random manhandling over nothing but baseless--! Baseless…” He trailed off because Severus _did_ have a wand. 

Dark wood, straight and smooth except for a finely detailed handle. His grip on it was white-knuckled, prepared to resist being disarmed. He held his wand with the arm Kingsley was not grabbing, his right arm, fully extended so that his whole body made an arrow pointed at the man’s jugular.

“Let me go,” the boy snarled, “or I’ll kill you.” A tremendous swallow passed through Kingsley’s throat. In response, Severus’ wand dug into the flesh of his neck even harder to avoid shifting off aim. Neither looked scared, only serious.

“Now, boys,” Arthur said carefully, because a wand to the neck could end very badly, very easily. Terrible form of posturing, it was, to hold a weapon to someone’s throat. Even a stunning spell could snap a slight man’s neck accidentally from that position. “Severus.”

“ _Let..._ me... go.” the boy repeated. While his face was contorted with emotion, his eyes were, if possible, even more empty than they had before. A very dark brown, they must have been; under the lights of Dumbledore’s office, Arthur had not been able to distinguish iris from pupil. Now they were worse--holes where eyes should be, static where there should have been communication. How disturbing, so many years into fatherhood, to be unable to read a child. As firmly as Arthur had told himself Snape was just like any other boy, thoughts now bubbled over to the contrary. There were rumors--but then, there were always rumors--that the initiation for Death Eaters included commiting murder. Had this Snape killed? Was it _this_ Severus who was a murderer? Or not quite? This boy plus a year? This boy plus two?

Kingsley held perfectly still-- _was_ it fear? But then, from his position, caution would have been warranted even if Ginny was holding the wand.

He let go.

As soon as Kingsley was half an arm’s length away, Severus dropped his arm. Arthur got the idea he hadn’t meant for things to end up in such a terrible standoff, but it didn’t change the fact that they _had._ He should have retreated--but no, Kingsley had pinned him against the wall. 

_Aurors_. 

Putting his frustration on incompetent law enforcement always helped Arthur calm down after a scare. Excellent scapegoats, they were. 

Usually. Though the tension had settled, Severus was still armed. There was Kingsley to consider, too, who was usually quite patient but really seemed to have it out for the poor teenager. The both of them were staring at Arthur like brothers caught fighting, waiting for his verdict of all people. That Kingsley was ceding any control at all proved he was aware how ridiculous it was to be at odds with a moody teenage boy, a guilty conscience Arthur could capitalize on in settling things. Forcing an unworried posture, Arthur turned to Severus first.

He put his palm out. Fathering wasn’t about discipline, it was about teaching children to discipline themselves.

Severus stared. Arthur wiggled his fingers. 

On his toes, suspicious as a deer, the boy crept closer. His eyes were black as before, but lacked their earlier emptiness--at least he looked alive now, if lacking a certain human quality. When he examined Arthur for any signs he had misunderstood the cue, Arthur found it easy to smile encouragingly back.

Severus placed his wand in Arthur’s open palm. Horizontally, so that the tip faced neither of them. 

He clapped his hand down on the boy’s shoulder in an approving manner, not oblivious to the discomfort it caused but hoping to show Kingsley that Snape was not so alien as he appeared.

“I’ll hold onto this for now,” he said gently. There was no need to snap at anyone. “I think you know threats are far from a casual offense, but _I_ know it was a stressful moment. Kingsley should not have grabbed you.” Near the wall, where Severus was not looking, Kingsley appeared neither apologetic nor smug. 

Just as Severus had relaxed, Arthur got to reprimanding. “So long as you are in this house, you must behave. I will not have anyone attacking each other, in fits of anger or otherwise, especially by magical means.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nor will I have any lying.”

By the way the boy stared belligerently off to the side, Arthur guessed that Severus was at his limit for being told off by a stranger. He pressed his mouth together, gave the boy one last supportive squeeze to his shoulder, and nudged him in the direction of the door. 

“Off with you,” he said. “Go see which clothes fit. If none of them do, don’t be polite. You may have to bear them for a while.” Kingsley waited until the absolute last second to step out of Snape’s path in a move of sheer pettiness. When the boy had disappeared into the dark of the hallway and around the corner, the auror inclined his head towards Arthur in silent admission of his own faults. As usual, Kingsley was chock-full of self awareness. The lack of subsequent self control was uncharacteristic, however.

“I’m surprised at you, Kingsley,” Arthur chastised. “What on earth has he done?” A heavy pause. “… Yet?”.

“Plenty in the past two hours, actually. More than enough to warrant caution,” the man told him. “He hit me with a self-designed cutting curse minutes after getting de-aged.”

The boy was jumpy, not sadistic. “What did you do to him first?”

“Loom, I suppose.” At Arthur’s look, Kingsley elaborated, “I suppose he wasn’t thrilled to wake up with Moody and I standing over him. Seeing as last he remembered, he was in bed at Hogwarts.” Which was perfectly reasonable. Criticism must have been obvious in Arthur’s face because Kingsley moved on without prompting. “There was another incident in Dumbledore’s office, not long before you came.”

“Did he use his wand?”

“No,” Kingsley admitted. “It was more of a… temper issue.”

“He _is_ a teenage boy.”

“You would have thought he was a feral dog. Even with the circumstances in mind, there is simply a predisposition to snapping in Severus Snape.” Guiltily, Arthur thought there was probably merit to that sentiment. “Everything sets him off. More than anything, he hates Dumbledore--I don’t know why. Deeply and personally. He bit his head off right before you came--I’ve never seen anyone speak to Albus like that. There’s another thing you should know, too. His mother...” Kingsley did a strange kind of twitch, suppressing something. “Don’t ask about his parents.”

Arthur brought a hand to his face. “Bad stuff, is it.” Famously ill-tempered Snape had been on the path to misery from early on, it seemed. “What a mess this all is.”

“Yes,” Kingsley agreed. “... Arthur, Dumbledore is aware he has put quite a large responsibility on you.” _Put on_ indeed. “He did not get the time he hoped to explain everything. You are the best man for this job. No one else in the order except you and Molly could care for someone in his situation, properly and without judgement; not to mention that between your children and Hermione Granger, Grimmauld Place is already somewhat of a safehouse for children.” 

_My children_ , Arthur wanted to say. Although perhaps it was less that he didn’t want to take on another child and more that Snape in particular would bring so much complication to everything. Ron detested the man. Harry, when he came along, would be worse. Hermione couldn’t hate a teacher if she tried, but Snape surely hated her and didn’t keep up much premise otherwise. Fred and George had served more punishments with Snape than any other teacher, excluding McGonagall, combined. Ginny thought subtly disrespecting the man was an art aching to be perfected. Young, desperate-to-please Severus who had a temper worse than a wet cat didn’t stand a chance if they chose to keep their grudges. Children could be cruel. _Teenagers_ could be the devil personified.

“A safehouse,” Arthur mused. The boy could certainly use it. “Did Dumbledore say anything about his cover as a spy…?” 

“It should hold on its own,” Kingsley reassured him. “Word will be released that he is indisposed due to an unusual curse. You-Know-Who thinks we do not know Snape is under his employ--he will not be surprised to learn we have sheltered him as any other ally.” And since the curse was real, they would not have to fear information leaks about Snape’s condition. “The greatest issue is that we no longer have access to the other side’s plans.”

“Surely we have other spies,” Arthur said. “Or someone who could become a spy.”

Kingsley shook his head. “It is a difficult duty. The Dark Lord is not an easy man to fool, and any who might manage the task would decline to risk their lives trying. He exaggerates often, but when Dumbledore claims the first war would have been lost without Snape’s support...” He trailed off. Arthur nodded, sympathetic with the desire to leave such hypotheticals unspoken.

“Who knows about him?” 

“Just you, Moody, Dumbledore and I so far, but only because he was cursed little more than two hours ago. As I said, there is no need to keep this secret. We should hold back the gawkers, however, even others in the Order. Purely for his sake. To that effect, Dumbledore suggested we get a curse-breaker we can trust to fix him. One we know personally.” He gave Arthur a meaningful--and slightly apologetic--look.

“Bill?” Arthur said incredulously.

“He’s a member of the Order, back in London but without a place to stay yet. I’d say it’s quite convenient.” 

“Dumbledore wants him to move _in_?” Kingsley raised an eyebrow at his tone. Arthur hurried to explain, “It’s not that I don’t want him here. He’s grown up, that’s all. I’m not sure he’ll want to deal with his younger siblings again. Close quarters.”

“It’s a big house,” Kingsley reassured him. “Designed for privacy. I’m sure there’s plenty of room available.”

“You’re incorrect, actually,” Arthur sniffed. “Big as the house may be, it’s infested up to the attic with all sorts of creatures. Not to mention the inert cursework--Fred nearly lost a hand two days ago trying to jig a doorknob. All but a few of the rooms still need to be cleared.” Ron and the twins were rooming together, as were Sirius and Lupin, and of course Arthur and Molly. They had hoped to have a room ready for Hermione, but upon her arrival three days prior their options had been putting her up with either Ginny or a horde of pixies. Granted, the pixies were astoundingly lazy, but Hermione unsurprisingly preferred a human roommate. 

“I’m sure there are Order members willing to help,” pointed out Kingsley, which Arthur knew but was too proud to ask. “I’ve made your life complicated enough this past hour--consider me your first volunteer, active immediately.”

Begrudgingly, Arthur conceded that at least for the sake of Severus, Kingsley could help clear a room before he left.

“It would still need cleaning once the creatures are out and the hexes disarmed,” he pointed out. “Of the non-magical sort. Even between the two of us, we can’t have a room ready tonight.”

“It’s past one in the morning,” Kingsley observed. “Where will you put him?”

“With the boys, I suppose,” Arthur murmured. There were three beds there, scavenged from other rooms. “Fred and George can share a bed. We’ll have to wake them and Ron up.”

“Perhaps you should wake everyone up,” Kingsley suggested. “To avoid an uncomfortable morning encounter.”

Shaking his head, Arthur said, “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had an unexpected guest show for breakfast. One morning, it was Harry Potter! Absolutely no warning at all. We’re a welcoming sort.”

Kingsley’s face pulled diplomatically tight. “I’m sure.” True, lauded, charmingly polite Harry Potter was as far an example from Snape as one could get, but willful ignorance had gotten many a father through the years. Arthur smiled dumbly back.

He considered asking Kingsley to collect Severus while he woke Ron and the twins, then resolved to do both jobs himself. Perhaps Kingsley could begin clearing a room--or, if Arthur was very lucky, he could come back in the morning. Bedtime seemed far enough away already.

“Better get to it,” he sighed. “I’ll check on Severus before I go up.” Quietly, in case the child was having a well-deserved cry.

It seemed Arthur would have fifty kids before he turned fifty himself.

Merlin’s tit.

“You ought to decide how much of this he can have back, first.” Kingsley motioned to the mess on the table--the former contents of Snape’s pockets. Curiously, Arthur gave the pile a closer look. As he’d noticed before, there were extra quills and a mess of spare or broken nibs. Vials upon unlabeled vials of colorful, curling liquids would have made the man’s pockets quite heavy if not for featherweight charms. They looked delicate, but most glass used for potions was spelled to be unbreakable. There were several squares of tightly-folded parchment, mostly about the same size except for one fat, worn, yellowed piece. He wondered how long Snape had been holding onto it for. 

The brightest object in the pile was an envelope made from expensive cream paper. What was left of the wax seal was green, but whichever crest or letter had been stamped onto it had been intentionally crumbled off. Aside from that were some particular odds and ends--a roll of bandages, a sheathed potions knife, a bezoar. 

“What is this?” Kingsley asked, picking something long and metal out. It was a pen, bizarrely. It appeared iron, but Arthur knew it was probably a muggle alloy of similar color--’steel’ or ‘tin’ or something. He had over two-hundred pens, himself, brightly-colored or even clear, so that one could see the ink reservoir inside. This one was plain, but he noticed as Kingsley handed it to him that it was unusually heavy. 

“It’s a muggle writing implement,” he explained, then took a couple minutes to show off the clicker at the end which made the tip emerge and recede. He would have liked to keep it, but Kingsley looked so enchanted that he offered it back. The auror slipped it into his own pocket. Briefly, Arthur wondered if Snape would mind when he was restored that they had taken his pen, but reassured himself that muggle stationary tended to be cheap and of replaceable quality. “I wonder why he had that,” he mused.

“He’s a halfblood,” Kingsley said, beginning to separate vials from the pile. Arthur raised his eyebrows.

“I never knew,” he muttered. Snape of all people, a halfblood. “Wait. How did he join the death eaters, then?” Kingsley lifted his hands to show the answer eluded him, too. “Do you think… You-Know-Who might not _know?_ ” 

“Impossible,” Kingsley shook his head. “Although…”

“No, no, you’re right,” Arthur frowned. “He joined right out of school. And he was in Slytherin, everyone must have known his blood status... A halfblood in Slytherin would have been the talk of the school back then.” Snape’s ambition must have been even more powerful than the laws of society to be sorted Slytherin in the first place. He hummed thoughtfully, and picked up one of the smaller notes. “Can we read these, do you think?”

“If we intend to give them back,” Kingsley reasoned, “then we should search them for sensitive information first.” Arthur’s stomach twisted guiltily, but he nodded in firm agreement. Snape was so private that all the moral fortitude in the world couldn’t keep a man from snooping.

To his disappointment, the first paper he and Kingsley curiously unfolded was a grocery list for potions. Every item was marked as either being for Snape’s personal use or the school’s general stock, and at the bottom was a total estimated price for each purpose.

“Very organized,” said Arthur with disappointment. They’d both clearly hoped for something more sensational. Kingsley wordlessly picked up another parchment. It was a personal note, unsigned.

_Severus ,_

the note read.

_This is hardly a time for spite. You will be instated as professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts when it is most advantageous to us and no sooner. We cannot afford to lose you to the curse on the position, nor should you be eager to invite whatever unfortunate circumstance could force your retirement from Hogwarts. The ministry is very unhappy with Lily’s son, and even more so myself, for spreading panic. I believe my trouble finding applicants to teach Defense is Fudge’s doing. Someone has been whispering fear of me in his ear. I need your assistance, not childish games._

“It’s from Dumbledore,” Kingsley said. “It must be. He’s talking about hiring a new teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“What’s he mean about instating Snape?” Arthur wondered. “He’s already the potions master.”

“‘When it is most advantageous,’” Kingsley quoted thoughtfully. “I don’t know. There may be other notes from Dumbledore.” He picked up one which was so badly worn it was fuzzing on the surface. When he unfolded it, it threatened to split on the creases. “He carries these around for a while, doesn’t he?”

“Suppose so. I wouldn’t have thought so, knowing him.” 

Upon further inspection, this note seemed to in fact be a sort of chain letter which had passed between several hands. It was littered with several distinct styles of handwriting, and the soft parchment had claw marks indicating several owls had at some point carried it. One of the contributors had used red ink.

It read:

_To S.S.:_

_You cannot replace the unicorn hair with thestral. Are you trying to make this tonic into a poison?_

_Sincerely, D.S._

_To D.S.:_

_Modifications as follows:_

_\- Two strands of unicorn hair._

_\- Six thestral hairs._

_\- Decrease pixie dust amount by half._

_\- Add twelve cloves._

_\- Add five bleeding rosehips._

_Order of changes during brewing to be determined._

_I'm not as daft, as you seem to think. S.S._

_To All:_

_I think S.S. is correct about the changes, off-putting as the concept of substituting unicorn hair with anything is. Wild idea, to use cloves, but they would certainly temper the thestal hair. And less pixie dust would make the potion more viable for impure ingredients, Can someone confirm bleeding rosehip will work as a substitute? _

_Best, T.N._

_To T.N.:_

_It will work._

_When am I wrong?_ _S.S._

_To S.S.:_

_Frequently, same as all of us. But yes, T.N., I can confirm. Bleeding rosehip and pixie dust are not interchangeable, obviously, but under some circumstances one can be used in place of the other. Send me a personal letter for more details._

_\--E.Z._

The writer with the initials E.Z. was the one using red ink. The discussion continued between what was obviously several potions masters, the one called S.S. presumably Severus Snape himself. Aside from D.S. mentioning their subject of debate was a tonic, none of them ever clarified what potion was in question. Their conversation was beyond Arthur’s ability to follow, but he could tell that they were quite comfortable with each other. At one point, D.S. wrote _Shut up, T.N., no one cares what you think,_ which everyone (including T.N.) took in good humor.

“Suppose they’re his friends?” Arthur asked quietly. Somehow, he’d assumed Snape didn’t have any sort of life at all outside of teaching and spying. “Do you think they should be told? That he’s been cursed?”

“How?” They didn’t have the address of the people in the letter, or even anyone’s full name. Arthur frowned. He examined the well-loved letter one last time, smoothed it critically, then set it aside.

“He can have that one back. Let’s see the next letter.” Just then, a low, solid chime echoed throughout the house. Then another.

“It’s past two,” Kingsley sighed. “You should get him to bed. Go wake your boys. I’ll collect this; we’ll go over it in detail another time.” He conjured a box to place inside first the papers, then the heavier objects, then finally the smaller things. The potions correspondence he carefully refolded by hand and gave to Arthur. “Give him this in the morning. It may bring him some comfort.”

Yawning and nodding, Arthur tucked it into his pocket. He’d already been awake when Albus came calling through the fireplace, but the short time that had passed since had completely exhausted him. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to come back in the morning to clear that room, Kingsley?” he asked. 

The man gave him a knowing, lopsided smile. Arthur couldn’t help but smile back in pleasant surprise at his comfortable informality, which was a long way from the attitude they’d shared when first sharing words in Albus’ office less than an hour ago. “I’ll be by in the afternoon,” Kingsley promised. “We can sort through this all then. I’ll try to identify some of these potions in the meantime.” 

“Safe travels,” said Arthur because Kingsley, like many aurors, had spells on his residence which prevented him from directly apparating home.

“Good luck,” responded Kingsley. They shared a few more words of goodwill between them before he departed, taking with him the very last of Arthur’s energy.

The father of--oh stars, was it ten now?--let his shoulders fall for a moment. It had been a terrible two weeks.

If he woke Ron, Fred, and George and had them move beds _before_ fetching Severus, they would probably be back asleep by the time he came back up with the boy. That was ideal--no confrontations until morning. He wanted to check on Severus before going up anyway, but if the child really had taken the opportunity to cry… Arthur wasn’t sure he had the bandwidth to comfort him. But that was parenting, wasn’t it? He would survive, and hopefully Severus would know at least one person in the house wasn’t dead set against his existence. 

Severus. Severus the Boy, who was the young version of Snape the Man. _Merlin, let the kids understand the difference._

After one last bone-deep exhale, Arthur gathered up every bit of cheer he could muster into his posture and entered the hallway with pep, smile not just pasted on but genuinely warm in preparation for facing a teenage version of the most disagreeable man he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing. _Keep your head, Arthur._

_Just be a dad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one had a lot more Arthur than Snape, I admit. It was an accident. There's just so much to unpack with him! Right now we're about two weeks into the Hogwarts summer of 1995, which means Percy had his fight with Arthur and cut ties about a week ago, the twins are recently 17 and therefore using magic at home for the first time, Bill just moved back from Egypt... 
> 
> Then in the larger universe, we have the revival of Voldemort and subsequent political divides between those denying his return, those opposing him, and those supporting him from the shadows. The Order of the Phoenix is being reassembled, so are the death eaters. Incidents involving muggles will start. The smear campaign against Harry Potter and Dumbledore begins this summer, hand-in-hand with the ministry sniffing around to see how they can sink their claws into Hogwarts...
> 
> Also, thank you again for your comments :''''')
> 
> I kind of wasn't going to post another chapter, but instead you guys got my longest one yet! So, um, thank you again, commenters. Please let me know if this wasn't what you wanted to see/the direction you wanted me to go.


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